Who am I?
by knowregrets
Summary: This is a oneshot from my AU but you do not have to have read that first. Rating for some sexual content and mention of domestic violence. Carly Davidson, an OC, has an encounter with Death Eaters and a mysterious tall, dark handsome stranger.


_AN – The world of Harry Potter is not mine – Carly is my invention though and Tine, however briefly she appears, is too._

_This is set in an AU, you don't have to read the AU to read this story, but I hope, if you like it, you go and read the other version of events (including the action sequences that are kind of glossed over here) in Everyone Knows. I wrote it because I felt that, even though Carly appeared in just one and a bit chapters, there was a story there that needed to be told – and this is that story. It will only be a one shot but I might do something more on Carly later – I don't know. Maybe when I've had a little time to recover from the writing of this one. This wasn't what this story was originally going to be. Originally this was going to be a comedic story about the "temp job from hell." But the resulting story hijacked that one and the broad comedy moments felt out of place._

_What else? Ah yes, this is first person and so has some gaps in the telling – gaps that are fairly inconsistent which is as I feel it should be when you are seeing just one side of events. My hope is that you will be able to get more of the story than Carly even knows herself but I will freely admit that I am not Alan Bennett and this is not one of his superb Talking Heads monologues and if I could write as well as that I could die a happy woman. Any suggestions for ways I can improve my writing gratefully received._

**

* * *

Who am I?**

I am Caroline Davidson, in Britain I was known as Carly (to my friends); here I am known as Caro. I am a twenty-three year old Muggle-born British witch living in Paris. I am the youngest ever Assistant Manager at Lacoupe, Paris's largest apothecary. My bruise removing potions are becoming known throughout Paris – it is my specialty. You see the trick is to stir … no forget it. It doesn't matter – unimportant really.

I live with my boyfriend, Jean, in a small apartment in a mostly Muggle area of the city. Everyone who meets us agrees; we are the perfect couple. Jean is witty, urbane and charming. And he is attractive, chic in the way that the French so often are – effortless. I'm his clever British girlfriend, a bit bookish, a bit spoddy (not that most wizards know what a spod is) a bit below his league, looks-wise, but not ugly. But Jean only has eyes for me – everyone sees that, comments on it. I'm lucky – or so all my friends, my acquaintances, tell me. Lucky.

We are quite the up-and-coming young couple, in professional magic circles at least. Jean's career isn't going quite as well as mine – but he's been unlucky. It's not his fault. He is really very good at what he does but people are jealous. They don't see … they don't see … it's my fault really. My career is going so well I'm overshadowing him. If it wasn't for me … I'm really very lucky to have him. Really I am.

It was a morning, much like any other morning. I was sat at my dressing table, applying my bruise removing potion, when I glanced up at the mirror and saw my mother's eyes staring back at me.

I had always despised her. How could she let my father treat her that way? Did she have no self-respect? Why did she never leave him? Years of abuse, years of beatings, hospital visits, the excuses. To others it was "I fell down the stairs." Later, when I was older and pushed her she told me "He doesn't mean it. He loves me; it's my fault really. I do stupid things and make him angry. I'm lucky really." She blamed herself; she always blamed herself. I blamed her too. It was her fault – why didn't the stupid woman just leave him?

My Hogwarts letter: it was the best thing that could ever have happened to me. It got me out of there, got me away so I didn't have to see it, didn't have to live in it. I thought it saved me. But it must have been too late.

There was always this look in her eyes, whenever she was caught off guard, whenever you looked at her before she had had time to prepare. It was a defeated look. It would only last a moment or two then she would blink it away and try to look normal. She was, I realise now, a reasonably good actress. She certainly had many people fooled. She was an idiot. I'd been telling myself that this was different, that it had to be different. I wasn't my mother; I was nothing like her. But then I saw that same look in my eyes.

I sat there staring at the mirror. I couldn't move. My mind, the one thing I had always relied on, had been lying to me for months. I sat staring into the mirror for an hour. Jean came and kissed my non-bruised shoulder, telling me he loved me, before leaving for work. I still didn't move. It was only after I heard the apartment door close that I could shake off my temporary paralysis.

You see a part of me does believe it is my fault you know. A part of me does believe that he is sorry, that he doesn't mean it. A part of me wants so much to believe it, believe that I am as lucky as everyone thinks me, even though that part of me doesn't really believe I deserve happiness, it wants it so much. A part of me still thinks, "What's a few bruises when I have Jean?" It's that part of me that gets me into trouble. That part I must work on suppressing.

I rang in work, told them I had a family emergency, and then I packed. Everything that I cared about fitted into one small trunk, the rest I left. I flooed to international apparation control, checked in at customs and apparated to the Leaky Cauldron. I took a small room for a few nights, registered with a temp agency and went flat hunting. There was no way I was going to turn into my mother. No way. I would never allow any man to hurt me like that again – never allow any man to make a fool of me like that again – never allow any man close enough. I am an intelligent witch for Merlin's sake! I don't need this – I don't need them.

* * *

Nine months later:

I always put on my mask before heading to the kitchen to put the coffee on. It's a necessary part of my day. My mask is capable, professional. My mask hides the inner needy. It is an essential part of my outfit. I'd sooner think of walking out naked than going without it. Some women won't leave the house without make-up, some won't leave without checking the doors and windows five or six times to make sure they are locked. I put on my mask. I always wore a mask, but it's better now. At least now I know that I'm wearing a mask when I never did before. That's better right?

I hadn't been in the kitchen long when Tine slumped in after me and groaned "Morning."

"Morning Tine." I replied. "Coffee?"

"Oh Merlin, please!" The desperation in her voice made me smile. My flatmate was not good in the mornings. She sank into a chair and buried her head in her hands. "I think I drank too much last night."

"No kidding?"

"Don't get smart with me Miss top-of-the-class Ravenclaw swot!"

"Can't help it. Smart is my middle name."

Tine's aim was about as good as her temper in the mornings. Not that it mattered, the only thing within reach was a serviette and it couldn't have done much damage even if it had come anywhere close to me. I just laughed and handed her a coffee.

"Why are you so cheerful anyway?"

"Last day at the temp job from hell." I reminded her. "Then two glorious weeks off before the next one starts."

"Lucky bitch."

"I'll think of you, stuck here, while I'm at my retreat."

"Retreat! It's a cabin in the middle of nowhere!"

"Mmmm. Heaven."

"Mad, absolutely mad." She said shaking her head.

Maybe it was mad. But to me it is a little slice of perfection to be absolutely alone for a while. Tine doesn't really understand me. We get on well, don't get me wrong here, she's a great flatmate. But I guess I have difficulty opening up to anyone. I haven't had a relationship since Paris. I feel happier that way. I know I'm too wary of letting anyone close. I've had a couple of one-night stands, drunken encounters when out with Tine, but nothing more. I'm fairly much a wham bam thank you mate kind of girl these days. Maybe that makes me slutty? Perhaps by wizarding standard but a single Muggle girl in her twenties having two one-night stands in nine months would probably think she was deprived so I don't really worry about it. Tine isn't exactly celibate, but she tends to go for the two to three-month-long passions, the "Oh I'm so in love" thing which inevitably falls apart. So who is better off really?

I don't need more than a one night stand. I don't want more than that. OK, there is a part of me that, when I meet someone, when I feel their lips on mine and their hands caress me; I want … more. But that's the part I've got to stop. That's the part that gets me into trouble. The first one-night stand I think I scared off when the mask slipped a bit. I put it back on firmly and for the second I didn't let go of it for a moment. For the second I chose a Muggle, it was easier that way. I couldn't let him into my life – it would have been impossible, so my mask couldn't slip. It was just about the sex. I don't need the emotional stuff. I won't need the emotional stuff that way leads to problems.

The first week of my retreat was wonderful. I slept late every morning, went for long walks along the sea front or over the hills. I ate in Muggle pubs occasionally, but generally spent the week out of touch with people. It was just perfect. But then, of course, I did something stupid. "Oh yes, that odd looking castle, let me go and explore that and get captured by Death Eaters, that would be such a good idea!"

The one who locked me up wasn't particularly competent; thank Merlin. The idiot (praise anything you believe in that he was an idiot) left my wand on a table near the cell. I broke the chair in the cell and used the leg to reach out and knock my wand towards me. I'd never been so scared in my life. I didn't even know they were Death Eaters at that point, I just knew they were dangerous and I needed to get out. Lying on the floor, reaching out with the broken chair leg, it seemed like it took forever to roll my wand within reaching distance. I was convinced they were going to return any second. Fortunately they didn't.

I made my way through a maze of corridors and staircases, thoroughly lost, jumping at every sound. When I heard footsteps coming towards me I panicked. I saw the hole at ground level and squeezed through it. It was some sort of drainage channel. I heard voices in the corridor and stayed as still as I could, waiting until they had gone. Once the coast sounded clear I started to turn over figuring that the channel might lead to an escape route when I heard footsteps again, and froze. Before I knew it someone landed on top of me.

He was thirtyish I guess, maybe a little older. Gorgeous, if you go for the tall, dark ruggedly handsome and slightly dangerous look – which, by the way, I do. I'd certainly had enough of the tall, dark, handsome and impeccably coiffured look to last me a lifetime. We both froze as we heard voices above us, waiting until they left. They had discovered my escape – not good, not good at all.

Now I think it is probably clear that I am a sexual being and not averse to the odd encounter of the physical kind. However we were in a dangerous situation and I think I am capable of thinking with my brain before other parts of my body. So I did my best to ignore the fact that basically someone of my ideal physical type was lying on top of me. It seemed to take him a moment or so longer to connect his brain rather than his … um … groin which was, I'll admit, incredibly flattering and would have been a huge turn on if I wasn't scared beyond belief.

I can hardly remember how we got out of there. The fear has blocked it out of my mind. I know we crawled along the tunnel for a bit, then there was some running, some curses thrown both from and by us (he was really good, I remember that, he knew his defence against the dark arts stuff all right). He was hit with something and I panicked. I grabbed him and apparated – fortunately we must have just made it out beyond the wards because it worked.

I'd never had anyone else visit my retreat before. OK, he was unconscious, but still it felt odd. The place was a mess. I levitated him onto the bed. I know I should have gone for help but actually I'm damn certain I wouldn't have made it I was shaking so badly. I tidied up a bit – simply because I needed to do something. And then, suddenly, I started crying. I wrapped myself in a blanket on the sofa and cried myself to sleep. I guess it was shock. I've never been in a situation like that before and I hope I never am again. Although I was glad he was unconscious and couldn't see me crying, a part of me wanted him to be awake and comfort me. That is my problem you see, that part of me. It's that part of me that meant I stayed so long with Jean. It's that part of me that I've got to get over, got to suppress. It's that part of me that caused me to have sex, the next day, with the handsome stranger who saved my life. It's that part of me that, when he left, wanted him to stay. I've just got to get over this.

I don't know how it happened actually. One moment we were saying goodbye, then we were kissing, his hands on my body, my hands on his. And for a moment I almost believed that it was more than physical, that there was a connection. I've always been a fool – I guess you've realised that by now.

It was just another one-night stand for Caroline Davidson. That's all. There was nothing more there. I don't need anything more. Maybe one day, but not now. More could be dangerous to me, more could get me hurt.

I reported the Death Eater incident to the ministry, of course. That was a frustrating experience. They didn't seem to believe me – or want to believe me. The ministry official was some ghastly woman with a headscarf and posh accent – pure-blood through and through. Refused to believe that they were Death Eaters, decided that it was probably some "rowdy youths" playing a tasteless joke and that I was a stupid Muggle-born fool to believe them. OK she didn't say that but it was implied. I know enough about pure-blood prejudice to recognise it when I see it. It was horrendous. She kept me waiting for ages and then returned with more inane questions. Did I recognise any of the "youths"? No they were wearing masks, and they weren't youths they were fully adult. Are masks becoming a theme in this story? I don't think they should do. Cloth masks are very different because they show rather than conceal your true face.

"But how would you know they were adult if they were wearing mask dear? I think you are being a trifle over-imaginative."

I could have screamed at her. I bit off my sarcastic response and just left in high dudgeon, although what the hell a dudgeon is I don't know. I confess I did leave out the gorgeous, sexy, stranger whose real name I never knew. I figured that would just add fuel to the "over imaginative" theory. And when I got home I'm glad I did; bloody glad actually. Because when I got home there was a picture in the paper, a picture of my sexy nameless stranger. And a name, there was a name, a vaguely familiar name. And when I asked Tine about him I found some things out that I really didn't want to know. I hid in my room for hours afterwards. I felt empty – like I did when I left Jean. There was a deep hollow pit of horror inside me.

I truly have dreadful taste in men. I'd blame my father but I'm more likely to blame my mother. In reality it's probably entirely my fault – I know that. I'm the one who should know better. I'm the one supposed to be intelligent. But look at me; look at them. First Jean, the suave sophisticated Frenchman, handy with his fists. And now this: a one-night stand with a mass murderer who had saved my life and whose life I had saved in return. I saved a murderers life. But it's so hard to believe. He was so nice, so competent in a fight, so gentle afterwards, so passionate in bed (well, on the floor actually but you know what I mean). How can he have been responsible for all those killings? As Tine was telling me the story behind the newspaper picture of the tall, dark and ruggedly handsome Sirius Black, a part of me was denying it so strongly. You see it's that part of me that gets me hurt. That's the part of me I've got to stop.

Now I've got to get my mask back on. That will make things better. That will make things right. I need to concentrate.

* * *

_A/N I have never been in an abusive relationship but I have known women who have been. There is a myth that abusive relationships are somehow more common amongst the unintelligent or uneducated, a myth from those who want to consider themselves and the people they know above that sort of thing. In fact domestic violence can be an issue in many types of households, and affects all types of people (I am aware that men can also be victims too, although it more common that women are). There is a common pattern that children from abusive relationships can often grow up to either be an abuser or abused in their turn. Not all do, I'd like to stress, but it is not an unlikely scenario. There is also a pattern that some women will go from one abusive relationship to another. In my, limited, experience, the one thing that many DV victims seem to have in common is their ability to lie to themselves – an ability I suspect we all have from time to time, but one a DV victim seems likely to use more consistently. But each person is different, each person reacts differently. I am not trying to present Carly as a typical DV survivor (or one on her route to being a survivor anyway) – I don't believe there is such a thing. All I am trying to do is make a believable character, someone whose motivations you may not agree with, but one that you can, perhaps, understand._


End file.
